


Other Wives

by BitchOfTheWaste



Category: The Sopranos
Genre: Eating Disorders, F/M, Fat Shaming, Feeding Kink, Humiliation, Public Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:28:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22499068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitchOfTheWaste/pseuds/BitchOfTheWaste
Summary: John catches his wife Ginny sneak-eating in their basement, or else she lets herself be caught. Sometimes humiliation is its own reward.
Relationships: Ginny Sacramoni/Johnny "Sack" Sacramoni
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	Other Wives

“You lied,” John shouts, shaking her shoulders. He’s angrier than Ginny’s ever seen him and she knows that something else is happening, that he’s made some mistake at work. The joke he thinks she never heard, maybe. The joke that brought her to hot tears alone in their bed, hand between her wide, pale thighs. The joke she whispers to herself while he’s inside her.

“I know I've gained weight these last few years.” She looks down, tears in her thick lashes, voice thick with emotion. “I see the other wives, the way men look at them.”

“Don’t I look at you like that? Haven’t I always?” He touches her gently now, his knuckles on her cheek, and she rests her face against their reassuring ridge. Uneven bone pushes against her soft skin. His voice is husky. “It was your idea, all this dieting nonsense.”

“I want you to be proud of me,” she whimpers through her tears. This is the part she needs, to be wide open on her knees in front of him, to know he sees her clearly at her most pathetic, chocolate at the corners of her mouth, wrappers strewn around her on the gray berber carpet she picked out when they had the basement finished. She needs to know that he still wants her like this, that in some silent, hidden way he might prefer it.

His thumb circles her dimple. His eyes are dark and bottomless, underscored by an insomniac’s bruised crescents. “I  _ am _ proud of you.”

He kisses her. His lips are chapped, his breath all cigarettes and the cold wintergreen bite of the mints he keeps in the console of his car. She can taste the hard edge of his anger as his tongue strokes hers and glides over her teeth. He pulls her to her feet, his strength a shadow of what he could do when they were young, when she was all hips, dark hair, and fluttering eyelashes and he was a thug in a suit her friends whispered must be stolen, his broken nose taped, his eyes blacked, but still enough to make her aching knees turn weak and tremble. His hands dig into the butter-soft swell of her hips. He pulls away, rests his forehead against hers.

“I love you,” he says quietly. She can see how badly he wants her, the way he always does when he finds her like this, when she lets him see her need. “I have to make a call.”

“John-” She bites her lip. Her face is flushed. The tops of her thighs are wet where they press together, frictionless with the slick of her need.

He looks up from his phone. The want is still there, but there’s a coldness covering it, the funeral veil of his other life and its long, still shadows. “Wait for me upstairs.”

She hears him whispering to someone as she hurries up the steps in a haze of anxious want, savoring the feeling of her fat, creased at the waist by her white Donna Karan slacks, moving in waves against her silk blouse. Sometimes she hates it, her body in motion, the ripples that sweep over her at the slightest gesture, the most careful step. A body that draws watchful eyes alight with mockery, that leaves a wake of stifled snickering and jabs along its path. Sometimes, though, even when they stare in revulsion at the sway of her ass, even when they murmur to each other as she passes, thighs rolling over each other, upper arms jiggling in the sleeves of an embroidered Balenciaga jacket, it feels like heaven. Sometimes when her lips close on a forkful of baked ziti or veal scallopini those eyes on her feel like hands, like gentle fingers and rough palms, like the soft touches of a dozen lovers on her perfumed rolls. They stare at her as though she’s naked, and she pretends not to love it.

* * *

In the cream-colored expanse of their bedroom she kicks off her carpet slippers and unbuttons her blouse, nails clicking against bone ivory, scratching against gold embroidery. Red marks on her pale skin. She leaves her watch on the bedside table. Unhooks her slacks, wriggles them over her hips, and steps out of them. Moves past the mirror as she unhooks her bra, fingers fumbling, and glances at her round reflection, at the way her breasts rest heavily against the crown of her belly, at the dimples on her thighs and the rolls of her back which lead down to the quivering spread of her ass. She hears something in the hall.

He’s watching her from the doorway, smoking inside the way he knows she hates, the way that makes her want to slap his cigarette out of his hand. She would, if he didn’t have that look on his face, if those coils of cadmium-blue smoke weren’t coiling slow and cloudy around his short silver hair, snakes caressing the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Instead she slides a fingernail behind the waistband of her panties, periwinkle satin edged with lace, and pulls them down. His eyes follow the soaked and glistening cloth. Her chest feels hot, a red flush mottling the tops of her breasts. She can’t see over the swell of her belly, but she watches him swallow at the sight of her curls, of her thumb trailing through the silky hair on her mound. 

He steps into the room, exhaling smoke, and grinds his cigarette out in the ashtray on the table by the door. Flowers in a gilded vase. Pictures of the girls. She kicks her underwear away and sits down on the edge of the bed, facing the mirror, toes just brushing the carpet. She looks at him over one shoulder as he shrugs out of his jacket and leaves it hung over her vanity chair. Morning light spills over the bed, warm against her back. Shadows in the furrows of his haggard face. She remembers suddenly a night she found him washing bloody knuckles in the sink in their apartment kitchen a few weeks after she had Allegra, how he looked in the light of the stove hood with pink water streaming through his fingers, her half-naked in her short silk robe, stretch marks pale blue river courses on her belly. The way he smiled at her, a little drunk, lip split. “You should see the other guy.”

He kneels in front of her and runs a finger through the wetness on her thigh. He sucks it clean. Kissing the silk-soft nadir of her belly where it rests between her legs. She scoops her breasts into her arms, soft flesh overflowing her thick forearms and delicate wrists as he bites her. She gasps, just a little, as his teeth graze the delicate skin where her thigh creases against her pelvis. Her reflection quivers, a scoop of ice cream melting on the bed’s edge, the lip of the mattress bowed under her weight. John looks small before her on his knees. She looks up at the ceiling, playing with her nipples, teasing them to stiffness while he licks her, while he burrows between her soft thighs, pushing her belly aside, straining to reach her center where she’s burning for him, where she’s soaking through the bedspread and the sheets.

She closes her eyes. Conjures their expressions, the men who laugh behind their hands at her, the women who wait up at night in empty beds but look at her like she’s an invalid, or something found under an upturned rock. As John’s tongue presses hard inside her and a tremor runs through the spreading bulk of her body, as she digs her nails into her pillowy breasts and his nose brushes rough against her clitoris, the motion of his head thrusting against her belly, she pictures their disgust, bathes herself in sneering faces and turned shoulders, in hissed jokes and pointed silences. Years of them. Her little heels drum against John’s back. 

“Oh God,” she cries, her voice breaking. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop.”

She opens her eyes, biting down hard enough to draw blood from her lower lip, and she can see them. Gangsters in their silk shirts and their gold chains, their suit jackets reeking of sex and sambuka, and the women at the salon, the other wives, slim and bottle blond and perfect, nails like claws to pick at her, mouths pinched into hateful lines. She can see them watching. Waves of fire sweep through her. She shakes, crying out as he thrusts his fingers hard inside her, thumb playing with her flower, and kisses her own wetness on her tits, sucks her nipple deep into his mouth. She kisses his cheek, his ear, the bristles at his hairline, smearing those traces of chocolate on his skin, making him as sweet as the shameful aftertaste of candy still lingering on her tongue.

They watch her scream, her whole body shaking with the force of her orgasm as she drenches his hand and the cuff of his shirt, and he’s still thrusting, softer now, two fingers stroking her velvety walls. Long ago she came to understand that pity and disgust come after the real emotion, to make sense of it in the minds of all these bitter people who’ve forgotten what the church teaches better than anything else. She almost laughs as he kisses her, a second coming shivering to life between her legs, flexing hard against his fingers. Her own slick juice wet on her lips as he breaks away to stare into her eyes.

The sweetest thing to taste is what you’re not allowed to have.


End file.
